


Beasts in the Garden (The Haunted Soldier)

by alicekittridge



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brief Sexual Content, F/F, POV Third Person, Trauma Recovery, mention of toys, post-Samaritan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 09:20:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13610301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alicekittridge/pseuds/alicekittridge
Summary: Root was blushing too, and smiling shyly. She said, “How strange that two assassins find each other artful.”ORA Post-Samaritan story told in four parts and alternating points of view.





	1. Steel Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> This was a Christmas present for cedarwoods that I finally decided I would post and share with you all. Rated M for a reason, though the content is very brief. However, this deals a lot with trauma/torture recovery and so if that makes you itchy, I'd skip this work.

**S** **ameen sat in** the passenger seat, her hands wrapped around a small cup of black coffee with sugar. Root had gotten it for her at Starbucks, braving the bitter temperatures to keep Sameen as warm as possible. She’d come back inside the car covered in fresh flakes of snow. Now whenever she moved, her boots squeaked.

            They were working on a number, which She could see through all the cameras in the clothing store. Root was the one taking surveillance photographs. They went from the camera straight to one of Her external hard drives attached to the computers at home base. The information gathered was just background, to see what the number does throughout his day, and what caused the danger. So far, no answers were found.

            She turned back to Root and Sameen in the car. Root was going through the photographs again. Sameen sipped at her coffee, adjusted her beanie. She got colder these days, and the cold affected her healing joints and muscles. Root would often draw her hot baths and Sameen would soak in them, sometimes for twenty minutes, other times for an hour.

            “How’re you feeling?” Root asked. She set the camera aside and took her gloves off, putting her hands in front of the vent.

            “Warm.” Sameen put her coffee in the cup holder. “Thanks for the coffee. You didn’t have to do that.”

            “I just want my girl to feel comfortable.” There was truth in her flirtatious tone.

            Sameen gazed down the street, at the number. He was standing in line, She saw, about to pay for the armful of clothes. Some of those sweaters were for him; the others were most likely for his wife. Sameen said, “Nothing interesting has happened with him so far.”

            “Let’s wait until he comes out of the store. If nothing happens, we’ll get lunch.”

            “Burgers?”

            “Whatever you’re hungry for, sweetie.”

            Since Sameen’s return, She has been studying her habits whenever She can. It’s Her contribution to recovery, since there isn’t much She can do aside from researching physical therapists, prescriptions, and the like. So far, She observed that Sameen’s appetite seemed to be relatively normal but that there were places she avoided getting food from. Park’s Deli being one of them. She’d brought the information up to Root one day, a couple months ago. _It worries me,_ She’d said.

            “Sameen hasn’t talked about it,” Root had told Her. “She isn’t ready to talk about any of it, and so we won’t ask.”

            She was aware of Samaritan’s torture, and drew Her conclusions that Park’s Deli and the Beatrice Lillie had somehow come into play. The knowledge made Her angry. How dare they taint one of Sameen’s favorite restaurants? Associate it with a bad thing?

            The movement of the number drew Her attention where it was needed. He was moving now, arms full of plastic bags. She looked through other cameras, trying to spot anything out of the ordinary, but ultimately came up with nothing.

            _I see nothing,_ She told Root. _Perhaps the danger won’t come today._

“Maybe,” Root said. “We’ll have to do more research.”

            _I will find personal files._

She kept watch over the kitchen where Sameen and Root’s burgers were being grilled to their liking and over their table, where She observed Root stealing sips of Sameen’s strawberry milkshake. Had it been earlier in their relationship, Sameen would’ve snatched the drink back and wiped the straw with the sleeve of her long-sleeve shirt. A silly thing, She thought, because they kissed or did more and yet, back then, Sameen was hesitant to share her drinks. Now she didn’t wipe the straw, she left it alone. If she didn’t wipe the straw after Root drank from it, was it like kissing Root?

            “What’re the plans for tomorrow?” Sameen asked.

            “I have training for half the day,” Root replied.

            _From 9 AM to 2 PM,_ She clarified. Root was needed at a lecture hall at NYU in the science building, where she would be going over her skill in detail with the new assets She’d recruited for the technical side of things. The new recruits wouldn’t be Admins, but they were like that, in a way. They would lead their teams in the right direction. She only hoped they expressed interest.

            “And for me?” said Sameen.

            “I’m not sure yet.”

            Sameen needed to be outside from time to time. Root had told Her that Sameen hated to be holed up for more than a day. She always tried to find things for Sameen to do and would give confirmation if it was okay if she accompanied Root on a task. Perhaps something would come up, She thought, and She could give a little task to Sameen to cure her boredom.

            Their burgers were being finished up in the kitchen. One of the cooks put extra sauce on Sameen’s double cheeseburger. Another scooped fries into their baskets and sprinkled seasoning onto them. Then they left the kitchen on the waiter’s tray and were set in front of them.

            “Anything else I can get you?” the waiter asked.

            “We’re good,” Root said, and he walked away to tend to another table.

            Sameen’s first bite produced a moan of pleasure. Her mood was bound to improve with the consumption of the burger. Sauce dripped down her chin and she wiped it away with a paper napkin.

            “Good?” Root asked.

            “You know the burger places I like,” Sameen said around her mouthful.

            Root ate hers delicately. It was smaller than Sameen’s. She dipped her fries in the strawberry milkshake before eating them, a habit other humans gave weird looks at but didn’t question.

            “Is there anywhere else you’d like to go?” Root asked.

            Sameen shook her head. “Just home.” She looked like she wanted to crawl into bed.

 

            Root was up until the early hours of dawn. Her face was illuminated by the glow of her laptop, and the reflection was visible in the lenses of her glasses that kept slipping down her nose.

            They were working on code together. It kept Root’s mind off darker thoughts, and She was happy to stay awake with her and guide her through puzzling lines or discuss the use of one versus another. Root whispered her replies, afraid of waking Sameen, who still slept delicately on some nights. It was another reason Root stayed up, in case Sameen awoke hyperventilating from nightmares.

            The code was nearly done. A few more lines and they could both take a break until another time. Root rubbed her eyes and yawned widely. When she stretched, She heard her back pop. Then she went back to the keyboard, fingers flying.

            _Would you like me to run tests with this?_ She asked.

            “Yes,” Root replied around a yawn. “Let me know the results in the morning.”

            _You have to be up in five hours._

“I know.” Root closed the screens on the laptop and let it sleep. She still watched through the camera. “I’ll leave You on tonight.”

            Root showered and changed into pajamas in the closet. She crawled into bed slowly and Sameen shifted, waking up a little.

            “Sorry honey,” Root whispered.

            “Why’re you up?” Sameen asked.

            “I was working.”

            “Hmm.” Sameen curled into Root, head falling onto her chest. “Not watching me sleep?”

            “Off and on,” Root admitted. She’d looked over her shoulder a handful of times.

            Sameen sighed again, fading back into dreams. Root’s eyes shut too. She kept watch over them both from the vantage point of the desk.

 

[…]

 

The new assets were bound to be useful. She chose each of them carefully, based on background, experience, and skill. So far they were divided into two categories, like the numbers: active and behind-the-scenes. The active assets were the ones like Sameen and John, who went out and did the number work that involved taking photographs, tailing them, talking to people who knew them, and the like. Behind-the-scenes was what Harold would do. The tech stuff, as Sameen called it.

            She already had ideas for teams and sent these along to Root, who looked over them with critical eyes. Sometimes she needed third and fourth opinions, and so she would travel to New York General or to John’s new apartment to discuss things with him. Root knew about military things in theory but John knew about them in practice. And when she asked Sameen’s opinion, she’d question her about medical things that’d come up in the files. Once the teams passed on paper, they were nearly good to go out into the field, where the real tests began.

            It was interesting to watch them work. They were very different from the team She loved deeply, and found amusement in some of the interactions. But she studied them, made calculations for successes and errors. Dynamics would improve over time, as each member got used to how they worked together. And if things didn’t work out, there were always substitutes that She could find, though it always took a month or two. It was deep research. It involved not only looking at personal files and footage of the person of interest but running simulations. It was tedious at times, but Her results were almost always good.

            Though she cared about the new assets’ well-being, She couldn’t help but be a little biased. Harold’s teaching was somewhat flawed in that regard. He built Her to care for people. He never imagined how that would grow into loving five people deeply. Six, if She counted Bear. She’d watch over the other assets but always come back to those five people. It was new code.

 

            “What do You think of them?” Root was asking Her that morning, on the drive back to the subway with breakfast.

            _They seem competent in their abilities,_ She replied. _Perhaps more tests should be done before we put them in the field._

“Simulations?” An unpleasant look crossed Root’s face at the word.

            _Studies show those often work best. Think flight simulator—that wording should make you feel better._

Root sighed, the troubled look fading. She said softly, “Sorry. It’s just, after what Sameen went through, that word doesn’t sit easy.”

            That conversation between them had been very brief. She’d deciphered it through static. Sameen only mentioned the simulations once and hasn’t mentioned them since.

            _I wish I could help more,_ She said.

            “You’re doing all You can. I’m sure Sameen appreciates it, even when she grumbles about it.”

            _She has annoyance in her tone when discussing physical therapy._

“Because it reminds her that her body has been broken.”

            Root slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting a pedestrian. He showed her his middle finger.

            She readjusted the bag of Styrofoam boxes on the passenger seat. Sameen would be disappointed if she knew her breakfast had been fed to the car instead of her.

            Back at the subway, She heard Sameen’s morning workout. Probably the bench press, by the sound and distribution of each grunt and sigh and the shaking of weights. There was a pause, some heavy breathing, and then the reps started again.

            Root entered minutes later. Her footsteps echoed on the cement. She rounded the corner and her footsteps paused.

            “You look good,” she said.

            Sameen gave a final lift of the weights and set the bar back onto the holder. She was panting. “Damn arms still shake.”

            “You’ll get there.” The plastic bag rustled. “I brought French toast.”

            They came into the subway car and spread themselves out at the desk. Sameen sprinkled powdered sugar onto her breakfast and took it in large bites. Syrup caught on her chin but she paid it no mind until a few bites went down.

            “How’d it go with the new nerds?” she asked around the bite.

            “It went well. The Machine wants to do more tests before we send them out into the field.”

            “What sorts of tests?”

            “Flight simulator.”

            Sameen’s eyes hardened a bit at the word but otherwise she showed no signs of an attack. She said, “Flight simulator?”

            “Real-world tests without going into the real world.”

            Sameen gave a nod.

            Root poured more syrup onto her French toast. She didn’t like as much powdered sugar on hers.

            Sameen got up from her chair. “Do you want milk?”

            “Just a cup,” Root replied.

            Sameen came back with cups of whole milk. She rubbed her arms. Gooseflesh sprouted on her skin.

            “Cold?”

            “Wish the heat worked better down here.”

            “I could invest in a portable space heater.”

            She was already ordering one. It would be delivered to the subway at 4:43 PM.

            “I want to take a shower,” Sameen said. Her box was empty except for a little lake of syrup in the corner.

            “Want company?”

            “You already showered.”

            “I’m always happy to take another one, if it involves you.”

            “You can do my back,” Sameen said. “No funny games.”


	2. Iron Curtain

**B** **razilian music played** from yellowing speakers in the ceiling. The volume fluctuated between soft and staticky to middle volume with very little static. The booths were old and the chairs were torn at the edges, their insides threatening to spill out. The wood floor bowed in some places and was water damaged in others. But despite the restaurant’s run-down appearance, the food was top-rated, and it was frequented by patrons eager for a change in diet. Like them, Shaw munched on traditional Brazilian meals with a bit of an American twist. She chased the bites with a strong beer and she wondered why she hadn’t found this place before Samaritan snatched her away. She could’ve spent many long nights with beer and food from this place on her couch with a football game droning on her television, or brought some back to Root, who needed to expand her palate and break away from her comfort foods every once in a while. She’d probably pick the avocado off—the best part of the dish!—and put it on Shaw’s plate.

            There was a notebook sitting to Shaw’s left. It was sparsely filled, many of the pages torn out in frustration, and the pages that were written on were mostly scribbled out words. But writing helped a little, and that was why she was here in the first place. She had to have a space to herself, with lack of prying eyes. Root wouldn’t pry but each time Shaw tried to write things around her, she felt Root’s curiosity like the glow from her purple lava lamp and she’d have to stow the notebook away until Root fell asleep or if she was called away. Sometimes, when she visited John and had the notebook with her, he’d ask if she was working on a book. No, she’d tell him, not a book. Just writing things I think of, or whatever. Intrusive thoughts, would be the more proper term. Small thoughts of destruction, or of being strapped to beds, or a chill of want for whatever drug her body was craving that day.

            Today’s page—dated in the right-hand corner—was filled with _fuck Samaritan, I’m weak. It’s their fault._ She’d scribbled it after placing her drink order, pen moving so furiously that she got worried eyes from the waitress. She’d told her it helps sometimes, and the waitress had said something along the lines of “Yeah, that’s what my therapist told me too.” The only therapist Shaw was seeing was her physical therapist, Dr. Enright, a number that pre-dated Shaw’s arrival to the team.

            _The place I’m at is a Brazilian place,_ Shaw wrote, after her angry scribbles. _It’s one of the few places that doesn’t remind me of them._ The food didn’t make her half-digested breakfast want to say hello. The clientele didn’t remind her of anyone on Team Samaritan. There were hardly blondes and silver-haired men that frequented this restaurant. Another reason she chose it, besides the good food reviews—which the Machine had sent her via text. They had all been from Yelp.

            “Is your other half playing guardian angel?” Shaw had asked when she got home from the restaurant for the first time.

            “She’s looking out for you,” Root had said.

            “More like meddling in my affairs.”

            Shaw did, however, appreciate some of the Machine’s looking out for her. Root wasn’t always by her side; she was busy with other things, and so Shaw was often left to her own devices. The Machine kept her company when she asked for it, and was distant when Shaw needed Her to be, but she could always feel Her watching.

            She finished her sentence and shut the notebook. Those words were good enough for today’s journaling. She tucked the notebook and pen inside her bag and turned back to her food, which was going cold. She picked at it. She looked at the security cameras above the entryway doors, just four tables down from her own. One of the red lights blinked at her, and then her phone vibrated on the tabletop.

            _Is everything okay?_

“Peachy,” Shaw said. She pushed beans around on her plate.

            _You look lost._

“I look that way a lot, don’t I?” She set her fork down, pinched the bridge of her nose. She took a breath. And maybe she was lost, sometimes. Her head floated in the clouds and some days she questioned her own reality so fiercely that she could do nothing but stay in bed suffering from severe anxiety. Other days her head was screwed on but it was her ears that tricked her. Or her eyes. Or her touch. They fucked with everything. Fucked up her code, her core being. She was still her, but then she wasn’t. She was lost because she’d lost some of herself, and now she had to wander New York in search of those pieces.

            She pulled at her hair until it hurt. “Fuck them, fuck them, fuck them…”

            _Take deep breaths, Sameen,_ She texted.

            Shaw put her head in her hands and focused on controlling her breathing. She recalled Dr. Enright’s voice and told herself _in, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10_ in that voice, and _out_ the same way. She did that for a minute, then two.

            “Where’s Root?” Shaw asked when she felt in control again.

            _Still at training,_ the Machine replied. _Would you like me to call her?_

“Yes.”

            Shaw’s phone lit up by itself. She picked it up and pressed it to her right ear. Her fingers brushed behind her left one. Just for assurance.

            _“Hi Sameen,”_ Root said. Her voice echoed on the other end. Was she in a hallway?

            “Hi.”

            _“Everything okay where you are?”_

“I don’t know. Kind of.” Shaw picked up her fork again, to give her left hand something to do. She piled avocado on her beans. It wouldn’t taste as good now that it was cold.

            _“Where are you right now? I can come pick you up.”_

“No, you don’t have to. I can walk.” She paused, trying to find words. What did she need, right now? She’d written her quota for the day. Had lunch. “Can we take a walk?” Maybe she could hold Root’s hand. The warm tenderness of it would ground her.

            _“If that’s what you need. I’m still trapped at the science building but I can be there in… half an hour?”_

“Okay.”

            _“I’ll see you soon.”_ Root hung up.

            The Machine texted again, _I took care of your bill. You can leave when you are ready._

“Thank You,” Shaw said. She pushed her plate away and stood up from the table to get her coat back on. She pulled on her gloves and beanie and shouldered her bag. She left the warmth of the restaurant behind and walked back to her apartment instead of taking the subway.

 

            Root was talking about her work-filled afternoon while they walked in Inwood Park. She gave a brief overview of her lectures and then dove into the flight simulator tests, which she’d walked around and reviewed with careful eyes. She said she was pleased with the performances but that some of them may have to retry. If they didn’t do so well the second time, then they may have to be let go or considered for other positions.

            “I sound like a professor,” Root said. “I wonder what Harry would think of that?”

            “He’d wonder why She chose you for a teaching position and be afraid of you torturing the poor bastards.”

            Root smiled. “He knows my ways have changed a little.”

            “Maybe so,” Shaw agreed, “but some of your methods are muscle memory.” And damn graceful. The first month of Shaw’s return, she’d wanted to know what the team had done in search for her, and the Machine had, rather reluctantly, handed over footage of Root’s recklessness and her torturing of operatives. She was brutal in her tortures, shocking or injecting or hanging the operatives within an inch of their lives. She’d made it look like a dance. A performance that ended with blood and sweat and insanity.

            Shaw looked at their hands. Root was holding hers tightly but it wasn’t a death grip. Wasn’t as tight as it would’ve been when she was close to orgasm. Shaw lifted her thumb from the side of Root’s hand and stroked the little strip of pale skin that was visible between the top of Root’s glove and the bottom of her coat sleeve. It was soft, and chilled from the bitter winter air. It was real.

            They didn’t walk for very long. The cold affected Shaw’s joints and made them sore and stiff. When they got back, Root filled the bathtub with hot water and a sprinkle of the musky bath salts that Shaw liked, despite them being from Calvin Klein.

            “Do you want company?” she asked.

            “Yeah.” She thought she was ready to tell Root about the restaurant. She hoped Root wouldn’t be offended if Shaw told her she wanted that place to be hers for a while.

            Shaw leaned against Root in the tub, wrapped in her arms. The water was running a little, hotter water being added. It created a relaxing ambience, singing along with the little splashes that Root’s hands made from rubbing circles on Shaw’s sides.

            “There’s this restaurant I go to sometimes,” Shaw began when the water was off. “To write a little. It’s a hole in the wall but the food’s pretty good.” She took a breath, let it go. Her fingers were tracing lines on Root’s wrist. “I think you already know what I’m talking about.”

            “Just bits and pieces. She’s told me it’s your place.”

            “You’re not offended?”

            “Not in the slightest.” She pressed the tip of her nose against Shaw’s shoulder, and her lips soon followed. “We all have those places we don’t really want friends in, even if those friends are good ones.”

            Shaw told her that words were hard for her even in writing, but that she often wrote her intrusive thoughts down. Did it help her get grounded? Yes, a little bit. A little bit was better than not at all.

            Twenty minutes in to the bath Shaw’s eyes were starting to slip closed. She could fall asleep right here, with her head leaned against Root’s shoulder and Root’s arms wrapped protectively around her.

 

            Shaw woke three hours later in bed, to the sounds of Root’s humming. It sounded like the Brazilian song that’d been playing at the restaurant. It floated from the kitchen, where Shaw’s waking ears caught sounds of food frying and smells of garlic. Curious, she left the warmth of the bed, wrapped herself in Root’s flannel robe, and went into the kitchen.

            “Hi sleepyhead,” Root said. She was stirring onions and chopped garlic in a frying pan. “I’m making an early dinner.”

            “Something come up?”

            “Small thing in Hoboken. I should be back by midnight at the earliest.”

 

            On nights when Root was away, Shaw went to the subway. It was one of the places that she could do activity, like weightlifting, or cleaning the weapons from the weapons locker. Or, in this case, wandering around Root’s jewel-tone room. Somehow the teenage-esque room suited Root, from the lava lamp bubbling on the nightstand to the bed covers that looked like a college student’s. There were parts of life that Root had to skip out on because of things that had happened. Hanna’s disappearance, and the death of her mother at sixteen. She was forced to grow up too quickly, move away from a home and a bedroom she never got to decorate.

            On the dark dresser, there was Root’s motorcycle helmet. It was shiny and new-looking but bore scratches on the right side. Skid marks, maybe. Had she gotten into an accident while Shaw was away? Or maybe she’d been on an open road and branches reached out to divert her off course. Shaw looked through the drawers, finding nothing of interest. The usual things were all there, down to racier lingerie and half-used bottles of jellies. She moved to the nightstand next, where corners of papers were sticking out from the top drawer. Opening it revealed magazines. Wedding magazines.

            “Why do you have these?” Shaw wondered aloud. She perched herself on Root’s bed. She flipped through the first magazine, thinking it was for a cover of Root’s—a wedding planner, or something like that—but going to the middle revealed handwritten notes in the margins with Root’s familiar, slightly looping handwriting.

            _Too simple; shoes too bright. Nice venue._

On the next page, _Lace pattern is lovely but I’d want it in a different place. The back?_

And on the next, _Suits are also a possibility._

“You sap.” Shaw stared at the notes. Why were these here? Is this really what Root thought about in her spare time? Wedding dresses and venues and slow dance music?

            Shaw set the magazines aside like they were baby kittens. She looked in the drawer again and nestled there, beside pens and pencils and broken necklaces, was _Sense and Sensibility._ A gift from Harold, maybe, but the copy was newer. Very like him; he’d be reluctant to hand out his rare first editions.

            Shaw put the magazines back into the drawer, making sure they looked close to how she found them. She left the lava lamp on; it still had to get hotter in order for the wax to dribble properly. She changed out of her jeans and sweater and put on workout clothes. She dragged the portable space heater to her workout corner and switched it on. It warmed up while she went through various stretches, mumbling the instructions to herself. Then she lay down on her bench press and prepared herself for ten reps with the twenty-five-pound bar. It started off okay; six straight reps without shaking. The other four were less smooth. She put the bar back in place and let her arms dangle over the sides for fifteen seconds, then picked the bar up again.

            “Damn,” she sighed at the end of the next ten. Her arms were shaking. Best to stop at twenty and switch to a different exercise, like pull-ups. Twenty of those too, she told herself, pulling on fingerless gloves, and then it was crunches.

            At the end of everything, she was a sweating, shaky mess. She took a hot shower and went back to Root’s bedroom. The bottom nightstand drawer had more books. Shaw looked through them, wanting something to read, and stumbled upon an old-looking copy of _Flowers for Algernon._ The cover was a blue butterfly, the edges browned and ripped. Shaw took it from the drawer and settled into Root’s bed with it. She opened it and on one of the blank inside pages was a note:

            _Sam,_

_Someday you’ll read this from cover to cover instead of snippets from chapters that’re in the eighth-grade lit book. This is better than the short story._

_Thank you for being a good friend. Merry Christmas!_

_Love,_

_Hanna_

_December 25, 1993_

            The note struck a chord but Shaw turned past it and to the start of the book.

            That was how Root found her, an hour later. She came into the subway bearing wiring and briefcases, setting them all down outside her bedroom. She flitted distractedly through her dresser in search of clothes, said, “Hi sweetie,” and went off to shower. When she came back Shaw was marking her place in the book with one of the paper flaps of the cover.

            “I was bored,” Shaw said.

            “It’s a good book.” Root threw her dirty clothes in the general direction of her hamper, where the pile was steadily growing. She knelt next to the bed. “It was a Christmas present from Hanna. I haven’t read it in over ten years.”

            Shaw set the book aside and reached out for Root’s face, cupping her cheek in her hand. Root leaned into the touch almost like a cat would, and maybe she’d be purring. Shaw ran her thumb over Root’s lower lip. Root’s teeth dug gently into the pad of it, a sharp sort of pressure that sent a chill of pleasure down Shaw’s spine.

            “You up to anything?” Root asked softly.

            “I’m not in the mood.”

            “Okay baby.”

            “How come you haven’t read this in ten years?”

            Root shrugged. “Usually didn’t have time for things like that. Too busy running around.”

            Shaw hummed. She carded fingers through Root’s hair. It was longer now, the ends drying up, but it was still soft to the touch. There were more grey hairs mixed in with the lovely brown. She said, “You’re getting some salt in your hair.”

            “An unfortunate side-effect of aging,” Root sighed. The grey hairs were covered when Shaw let go of the strands she’d ran her fingers through. Root didn’t much like the idea of getting older, Shaw knew. The idea of sitting around and waiting to die wasn’t the type of life Root wanted for herself.

            “You’re still hot,” Shaw said.

            Root smiled. “You are too. No wonder we’re so good together.”

            It was Shaw’s first genuine smirk in weeks.

 

[…]

 

_Hello Sameen._

“Hey Robot.”

            Shaw snatched a doughnut from the box Root had left for her on the desk. She saved the bear claws for last.

            “What’s the plan for today?”

            _Most of the plans lie in Root’s agenda,_ She replied, words appearing on the middle screen, _but if you feel trapped, perhaps I can think of something._

“Let me know.” There were only so many times she could do weights, or flip through Root’s magazines, or let herself stare at the contents of the middle drawer until her mind was waxy with gutter thoughts. She wanted fresh air, wanted regular missions and not some watered-down thing, but her body wouldn’t listen.

            Shaw ate the last of the doughnuts and washed them down with a glass of water. Then she pulled her boots on, buttoned up her coat, and shoved her wallet and notebook into the pockets. Her phone was snug in her back pants pocket. She regarded the earwig on the desk and decided to take it with her.

            “I’m going to the Brazilian restaurant,” she told the Machine, making her way up to the cold world of Chinatown.

            _I will keep you company._

“I don’t want endless information floating into my head. Just… talk when I do.”

            _Understood._

Shaw took a cab to the restaurant. Once there, she found her usual table and ordered a coffee.

            “Would you like caramel in it?” the waitress asked. “It’s a seasonal special.”

            “Just a little bit.” She’d get a little taste of the coffee Root liked to drink in the winter. They’d walk in Central Park with Bear and stop at the coffee stand that Root liked. She’d get whipped cream on the already sweet thing, and then sprinkle cinnamon and nutmeg on top of it. A heart attack waiting to happen, Shaw would tell her, and Root would say, A tiny cup of coffee won’t hurt anything. They say it’ll help you live longer.

            Shaw took out her notebook and wrote down _Root’s coffee @ Brazilian restaurant. Would she like it?_

It seemed her thoughts were situated on Root today. Her hand wrote several of them, one involving the contents of the dresser drawer. She kept these abbreviated, a little code of her own. She wished things could be like they were, that she wouldn’t get squeamish if Root mentioned tying her up or blindfolding her. In theory those things turned her on, were pleasant to think about in the shower, but in practice made her shy away. And regarding those things, she didn’t understand where Root’s patience stemmed from. Why Root wasn’t frustrated with her.

            “Did You teach Root patience?” Shaw murmured. “Or was she always that way?”

            _She seemed to always be that way, based on archived footage._

It made Shaw wonder about Hanna. How long had Root waited to hear something? How long had her patience been strung out?

            The waitress came back with her caramel coffee. She asked if Shaw wanted any breakfast.

            “We can do American, if you’re feeling up to it.”

            Eggs sounded delicious.

            “Mind if I get eggs?” Shaw said.

            “How do you like them?”

            “Scrambled. With shredded cheese.”

            “Hot sauce?”

            “Yes ma’am.”

            “And the size?”

            “Small plate,” Shaw said. “And maybe a bit of bacon. Crispy.”

            The waitress flipped her book shut. “Be right out,” she said, and made her way back to the kitchen.

            Shaw dug her phone out and texted Root. _Thanks for the doughnuts. Having second breakfast._

 _Are you writing somewhere?_ was Root’s reply.

            _Yeah._ As an afterthought, Shaw added, _They have your coffee._

_Sounds good. Maybe you could share sometime ;)_

            Shaw rolled her eyes at the winky face.

            _I’m proud of you,_ Root texted, and then the conversation stopped.

            “I think Finch would find it amusing that she’s teaching,” Shaw said to the Machine.

            _The path of career was not a planned one until recently,_ She said. _It has become necessary._

“Why all the new assets?”

            _To take weight off you, John, and Root. But also because it is necessary._

Understandable, given that three people couldn’t be all over the US and the world at once.

            _How do you feel about paying a new asset a visit?_ She asked.

            “Depends on the asset and the occasion of the visit.”

            _Joey Durban. Perhaps I could arrange lunch?_

“Make it Capital Grille and it’s a deal.”

 

            Joey was already at the restaurant when Shaw arrived. His coat was slung over the back of a chair and he wore a turtleneck sweater. His hair was shorter than when she’d last seen him. There was a glass of something to his right, ice melting, condensation building on the glass. He looked up when Shaw approached. He stood up to greet her.

            “Hi Shaw,” he said. They shook hands. “Thanks for coming.”

            “Had to ditch house arrest.” Shaw sat across from him, hanging her coat off one side of the chair.

            “I uh, ordered you a scotch. She said it was your preference.”

            Shaw noticed the wedding ring on his finger.

            “Married now, huh?” she said.

            “Yeah, August 17th. Happiest day of my life.”

            Would Root’s eyes smile the same way if she found herself sitting across from an asset and told them about her wedding day?

            Shaw’s scotch was set in front of her, and the waiter asked for their lunch orders.

            “How’d you wind up working for us? Her, I mean,” Shaw said around the glass. The first sip was marvelous but she recognized the brand.

            _You like Black Label, don’t you?_

She scooted the glass to the side.

            “Wrong kind of scotch?” Joey questioned.

            “No, uh… I can’t drink that kind.”

            “Let me get you a different one.”

            He came back with another glass from the bar. “Balvenie,” he said. “Single malt scotch whiskey.”

            It was rich in flavor and burned going down. She said, “You know how to pick a drink.”

            “Had a lot of time to get to know my drinks.”

            Probably so, Shaw thought. It wasn’t uncommon for vets to turn to alcohol after coming back from war. She saw it in the hospital during her residency and saw it during her Marines days before the ISA recruited her.

            “You asked how I wound up here with this job.”

            Shaw nodded. He told her the story. Buddy died in combat, leaving his wife and newborn daughter behind. Joey had made a promise to take care of the kid, and kept to that promise, but the way of making the money had been a dark one. Cue John and Harold showing up, saving his life, telling him to move away with his girlfriend Pia and earn money doing better things.

            “I was in LA for a while. Worked at a bar. Things going okay, but nothing I was ever passionate about. I wanted to do military work again. It was all I knew, you know? Something gets ingrained, it’s hard to erase.” He sipped his drink, sprinkled salt on the coaster to keep it from sticking to the sweating glass. “Shortly after proposing, I get a job offer. Military work, but of a different sort. Someone who needed my expertise, so to speak.”

            “The Machine,” Shaw said.

            “Exactly. Hard to believe at first. An offer of pay that much seemed too good to be true.” Another sip, and his glass was empty. “But the offer got me curious, so I came out, saw what it was about… Haven’t looked back since.” He shrugged. “Guess She likes me well enough.”

            “She cares about you,” Shaw said, repeating one of Root’s many-said phrases.

            Their food arrived shortly after and Shaw eagerly dug in. There were even extra garlic mashed potatoes—had the Machine done that?

            “When we met before, saving the President,” Joey said, “I wanted to ask you how you ended up here, but you looked a bit rough.”

            “I used to work the relevant side of things,” Shaw said after a moment of thought. “At the time, I didn’t know it was the Machine I was working for. Program was called Northern Lights; the agency I worked for was the Intelligence Support Activity—ISA. My partner started asking questions about the numbers, wanted to know where they came from and how Research was never wrong. Research was what we called the source of the numbers,” she added, and Joey nodded. “Our boss got a whiff of the questions and decided to set up an operation. Cole got killed saving me. I found out who Cole was talking to about the numbers and meet up with her, but it turned out to be Root, who you’ve met. After that, I got an attempt on my life, woke up in an ambulance, and got a job offer from Harold. Took me a while to accept it, but I did.”

            Joey was taking it all in. He pushed vegetables around on his plate. Then, “They told me you were the quiet one of the bunch.”

            Shaw smirked. “I can say a lot if I feel like it.”

            “I’m guessing it’s very rare.” He set his fork down and excused himself, heading for the restrooms at the back. Shaw took the opportunity to find her notebook and opened it to a blank page, just one after her latest entry. She put the date in the right-hand corner, and wrote a little about Joey. She was still writing when he came back.

            “Working on a book?” he asked.

            “No.” She punctuated her latest sentence and shut the notebook. “Someone told me writing about things helped.”

            “Been through a rough patch, then?”

            “More like hell.” She cut a chunk off her steak more forcefully than she’d meant to. The knife scraped against the plate.

            There was a curious look on Joey’s face. Obviously he wanted to know more, but he didn’t pry. That earned more points in Shaw’s book. Another asset well-chosen. She’d be sure to tell the Machine that sometime.

            Shaw ordered dessert while Joey was content to sit with one last drink. It was smaller than his first two. The restaurant slowly got busier. It was past one in the afternoon and people were taking lunch breaks. They should leave soon, if they had other things to do.

            “Thanks for the drink,” Shaw said when they were getting their coats back on.

            “No problem.”

            They walked to the front of the restaurant. A man was wearing a rich cologne and it filled her nose, clouded her brain, and churned her stomach. Nausea passed over her at the doorway and she stumbled a bit, gaining attention from waiting customers and Joey.

            “You all right?” he asked.

            “Nauseous,” Shaw managed. Lunch was going to come back up if she didn’t sit down somewhere.

            “Let’s get you outside. Can you walk?”

            They found a place on the sidewalk next to the building. He stayed with her, phone out in case he needed to call someone. Didn’t ask questions about what caused the nausea, or her sudden spike in breathing. A good man, Shaw thought. Like Cole.

            “Your wife,” Shaw said, “is a very… lucky woman.”

            He smiled a little bit, the blush in his cheeks making him look slightly boyish.

            Shaw stood up when she felt she was steady on her feet. Joey hailed a cab for them.

            “You’ve done enough for me already,” Shaw said.

            “We’ll trade off next time.” He opened the door for her and she slid in. He got into the seat beside her. She smelled his aftershave in the rush of air that followed him when he sat down.


	3. Homesick Wishes

**R** **oot had just** gotten home when the Machine informed her that Shaw was on her way back. She took interest in the fact that Joey Durban was with her and asked, “Did something come up that You needed them for?”

            _I thought it would be good if Sameen went out, and so I arranged lunch. They got along well,_ She added. _But Sameen had a little attack as they were leaving the restaurant. Footage shows it happened as she passed someone._

“It could’ve been a cologne or a perfume.”

            _Perhaps._

Root heard their voices out in the hall later. They were close to the door; Shaw hadn’t put her key into it yet.

            “I know talking isn’t really your thing,” she heard Joey say, “but if you do feel like you need to…”

            “Thanks.” Rustling of clothes.

            “I’ll see you around.”

            Key scratching in the lock, and then there was Shaw, bundled up in her winter clothes, face and nose red from the cold. She dropped her keys in the bowl and went into their shared bedroom to get rid of her cumbersome coat. She came back barefooted, in comfortable jeans and an old T-shirt. There was a little business card in her hand.

            “He gave me his psychologist’s card,” Shaw said. She looked a little embarrassed. She gave it to Root. _Barbara Hamilton, Ph.D.; counseling for children and adults._ It listed her email address, her cell phone, and work phone. “I didn’t tell him anything, but he seemed to know something was up.”

            “She said you had an attack,” Root said cautiously.

            “Stupid cologne some guy was wearing. Same as Greer’s.”

            Root gave Barbara Hamilton’s card back. Shaw set it beside the key bowl. “How was lunch with Joey?”

            “It was good. We were at Capital Grille. Had a new brand of hard liquor I’d never had before.”

            “Yeah? What was it?”

            “Balvenie. It’s single malt scotch whiskey.”

            “I’ll be sure to buy you a little bottle next time I’m buying groceries.”

 

            Shaw was in her arms. Her body was warm and felt, right now, delicate. Where Root’s hands wandered, she felt muscles. Not the same as they had been before Samaritan captured her, but they were there. Shaw was building them up slowly. She still shook when she did her workouts at the subway and was frustrated with the state her body was in, but seeing her get back into a regime after nine months of hell made Root very proud of her. She’d told her that before bed, before Shaw succumbed to exhaustion and fell asleep in Root’s arms. She was sound asleep now.

            Sometimes, in moments like these, Root would whisper things to her. Things she wanted Shaw to know but couldn’t share when they were both awake. She even whispered “I love you, Sameen. I love you.” The words felt good to say. They were weighed with truth.

            “Every time She tells me of your accomplishments,” Root was saying now, “I get this swelling in my chest. It’s hope, but proudness. You never fail to amaze me.” She sighed, moving a few strands of Shaw’s hair behind her ear. She’d taken her earrings out; her lobes were bare except for the little holes. “After all that happened to you, you’re determined to get back to where you were. Finding yourself again will take time. I’ll do my best to be here for you.”

            Shaw stirred, a soft groan escaping her mouth. She was lost in a dream. Her thumb twitched every now and then. What did she dream of, if it wasn’t a nightmare?

            Root held Shaw tighter. I want to know what they did to you, she thought. I want to kill them. Make them bleed for doing this to you.

            “I love you,” she whispered. “More than I could ever show you.”

 

[…]

 

While Shaw went to spend time with John at his apartment on the Lower East Side, Root spent her day indoors at her Seaman Avenue apartment. Between cups of coffee and tea and little bites of store-bought coffee cake from Zabar’s, she worked on code and the final results of the recruits that’d gone through the flight simulator. Almost all of them passed. Only three had failed. She sent out the results and sent those three people an email detailing that they had one last chance to pass and if they didn’t, they would be considered for another position or possibly let go. They would respond eventually, the Machine assured her, and she closed her laptop and leaned back in her chair, stretching her sore muscles. There was nothing on the agenda today, save for telling Shaw that something came up in Arizona that needed tending to. Root hated to leave her, especially given the circumstances. She wished Shaw could go with her. The Arizona warmth would be better on her joints, and she would have a chance to leave a city that was filled with specters. Root sighed, feeling at a loss. What do to about this? she wondered. Was Shaw ready to travel out of state for almost a week? If so, should they take a plane, or a car, or even the Amtrak?

            Everything was different now. Root had thought of her actions with Shaw in mind before, but now they were a part of everyday life. She couldn’t leave the apartment without wondering if Shaw would be fine without her. She couldn’t buy food at the store or order it online for pickup without thinking of possible ingredients that would trigger something. She felt helpless. It was obvious that Dr. Enright’s physical therapy sessions were helping Shaw get back on track physically, but when it came to her mental health, there really wasn’t much to tell. She knew Shaw had invasive thoughts. That was the purpose of the notebook, to write them down, to ground her when she felt reality slipping a little. But what else went on? Was there still a lingering paranoia? Still something nagging that said this wasn’t over?

            If only holding Shaw tightly and wishing at 11:11 was enough to make her better.

 

            Shaw came home around lunchtime. She smelled like the cold and traces of a diner. She said she and John had gotten burgers together and talked for a little while. Said John was doing well but that the wounds still ached from time to time.

            “Told me I was free to steal from his Vicodin stash if I needed it,” Shaw said, smiling a little. It glowed in the afternoon sunlight shining in through Root’s kitchen window. Her heart swelled at the smile. So beautiful.

            “Tell him you’ll only steal half a pill,” she joked back. She continued scrubbing at the pans in the soapy dishwater. The steel wool scraped unpleasantly inside her eardrum. She gentled her movements, looking back at Shaw, but she didn’t seem affected by the sound.

            One of the kitchen chairs scooted back. Shaw sat down. Root heard her tapping a beat on the tabletop.

            “Root?”

            “Yeah?”

            “You know the other night, when I was reading your book?”

            “Mm-hmm.”

            “I may have seen your magazines.”

            Root could’ve guessed. Shaw would’ve had to look through both drawers to find something to read. She said, “They weren’t for a cover.”

            “I know. I… saw your notes.” _Crk._ She was chewing on a fingernail.

            “They’re just things I like to think about,” Root admitted. “I told Harry I believed in fairytale endings.”

            “Always knew you were a sap.”

            Root smiled. “Even when I was holding an iron close to your face?”

            “You were probably thinking it was our first date.”

            “What was our first date, to you?” Root turned around, abandoning the dishes in favor of sitting next to Shaw at the little kitchen table.

            “Probably the day you drugged my ass and dragged it all over town.”

            “You got your revenge, though.”

            “By punching you.”

            “And leaving me hanging the morning of hour 10.”

            “I liked it when you were frustrated and didn’t get your way,” Shaw said. There was a smile playing in her lovely brown eyes.

            “You still do.”

            Shaw bit her lip. Root couldn’t help but zero in on the movement. What about that was so attractive?

            After a while, Root said, “There’s something that came up.”

            “What?”

            “I’m going to have to go to Arizona for five days. Something about questionable server farms.” Shaw’s face changed a bit. Root added, “I’m trying to see if it’s safe for you to come with me. I would like you by my side, but I wouldn’t want you there if it wasn’t safe.”

            Shaw nodded, understanding.

            “I’m sorry. It’s frustrating.”

            “Not your fault,” Shaw said. She messed with her ponytail. “When do you leave?”

            “Most likely on Saturday.”

            “Anyone going with you?”

            _Jason or Daniel may accompany you,_ the Machine said.

            “She says maybe Jason or Daniel.”

            “Can the nerds shoot a gun?” Shaw asked. Her posture was stiffening slightly.

            “Jason’s had a little firearm training. Not so sure about Daniel.”

            “A little isn’t good enough.”

            “What about you, Sameen?” Root said softly. “I know you’re doing okay, but I worry.”

            “I’m not weak.”

            “No, you’re not,” Root agreed. “I’m worried you’re not comfortable holding a gun. That something will happen.” That she’d turn it on herself if something caused her to question reality.

            Shaw was pulling at her hair now, tendons in her hand standing proud. “I hate this,” she whispered. “I hate them. I hate what they’ve done to me, what they’ve turned me into. It feels like I’m still their goddamn lab rat six months later.”

            Had there been needles along with the simulations?

            “I know, baby.”

            “How long will this last?” Root wasn’t sure if Shaw was asking that to her or to the Machine.

            “I don’t know. Some people heal faster than others.”

            Shaw sighed, took several deep breaths. Root’s heart cracked in her chest.

            “Do you want some tea?” Root asked.

            Shaw shook her head yes.

            “A little ginger with it?”

            Another nod.

            Root put the kettle on. She got down two mugs, a blue and a red one. They waited in silence while the water boiled. The kettle whistled, the hot water was poured, the tea steeped, and Root sprinkled a little ginger into Shaw’s tea. She’d read a small scientific article about ginger’s calming properties. It was becoming Shaw’s preferred type of tea, whenever she drank it.

           

[…]

 

Dreaded Saturday morning arrived. Root got out of bed, reluctantly leaving its warmth and Shaw behind, to shower. Her flight was at 10:15 and she had to leave at 8:00 if she wanted to make it on time. It was flying out of LaGuardia Hellhole. Jason and Daniel would be meeting her at the gate.

            Root dressed in comfortable but warm clothes and put her hair up in a messy bun. She gathered the last of her travel things into a toiletry bag and stuffed it into her duffel, which was packed with a week’s worth of clothes in case She needed them to stay on an extra day or two. Underneath those clothes were two handguns, her Glock and her compact 9mm Smith & Wesson. Even if Shaw didn’t handle firearms much these days, she was still very reluctant to lend out her favorite USP compact, or her Nano.

            Root shoved extra ammunition into her duffel and zipped it up. She pulled on her boots and coat as quietly as she could. Getting her scarf from the closet caused a rustle of hangers, which caused Shaw to move into a state of half-sleep. Root sighed, tied the scarf around her neck, and sat gingerly at the edge of the bed.

            “Hey baby,” she murmured when Shaw’s sleepy eyes fell on her.

            “Catching your flight?”

            “Yeah. The boys will meet me at the gate.”

            Shaw nodded. She reached out and Root took her hand, squeezing it. She brought it to her lips, kissing Shaw’s palm, the tips of her calloused fingers. She heard a contented sigh escape Shaw’s lips, something not often heard.

            “I should be back on Thursday,” Root said, “but I’ll let you know if the trip goes longer.”

            Another nod.

            Root reluctantly let go of Shaw’s hand. She got up from the bed, making to leave, but Shaw’s soft voice called her back, “Wait.”

            “Come here,” Shaw said. Root leaned down to her, and Shaw kissed her.

            “Is that my good luck kiss?” Root questioned, unable to keep the little smile off her face.

            “Something like that.”

 

            Ever since stepping off the American Airlines flight into the airport hellhole known as LaGuardia at the tender age of seventeen, Root hated it. The airport was old and smaller and disorganized. Even now she had a little trouble navigating it, despite landing and departing here hundreds of times within the last ten years.

            She got checked in for her flight, passed through security without issue—it helped to have an all-seeing AI on your side when you packed guns in your bag—and stopped at the Dunkin’ Doughnuts stand to indulge herself in a single glazed doughnut and a small cup of coffee. She didn’t head to her gate yet. She had to prepare herself to be in the presence of the boys. She liked them a lot, there was no denying that, but talking with them sucked energy from her.

            Root wiped her sticky fingers on the napkin and threw it into the trash just outside the gate she’d lingered at. She cupped her coffee in both hands to warm them up, heading in the direction of gate B3. The Machine assured her there weren’t many people on the flight and that their tickets were still first class. More foot room. No having strangers’ heads fall onto her shoulder despite their best efforts. The only head that belonged on her shoulder was Shaw’s.

            Daniel and Jason were sitting at the gate, feet propped up on their carry-ons. They greeted her with tired smiles and a “Hey Root.” It seemed they weren’t morning people either.

            Root slept for most of the flight, her coat acting as a blanket for her legs. The Machine played binaural tones in her implant and the earwig in her good ear. It was as close to in stereo as they could get. When she woke up again the tones stopped and the Machine said, _Thirty minutes until landing. Do you need a snack?_

“I’m okay.” She sat up straighter in her chair, the hazy parts of her dream resurfacing. It’d involved whispers and a bed and they didn’t help the strange arousal that flight always brought on. She rubbed at her thigh underneath her coat but did nothing more.

            The plane landed, they got off and fetched their other luggage from the baggage claim, and made their way to the rental car place. The Machine had already paid in advance and gave them an Audi for the week. Jason spent half the ride admiring the leather seats.

            “Hope your friend got us a nice hotel,” Daniel said. “I can’t stand crappy places after that cabin in Canada.”

            “Did you have a roach problem?” Jason joked.

            “Water pressure too.”

            “She assured me it would be a four-star,” Root told them. “Things have improved a little since the glory days.”

            Jason snorted. “I’d hardly call it that.”

            They got settled in to their respective rooms. Root told them the plan: rest of the day off today, work began tomorrow. She gave them a brief overview of the plan but would go into detail over the next few days as they learned more via research.

            “Sounds good,” said Daniel. “I’m gonna hit the pool and turn in.”

            “I’ll be at the bar if either of you need me,” Jason said, and headed for the elevators.

            Back in her room, Root collapsed on the bed with her laptop and glasses. She pulled up coding screens and footage from the hidden cameras in her apartment. It was empty. She switched to the ones in the subway and glimpsed Shaw on her bed, absorbed in _Flowers For Algernon._

            “I think someone likes your book, Hanna,” she said. Hanna would probably scold her for not picking it up in ten years and bat her over the head with it until Root submitted and read for a day.

            Moments before work were always a lull. Root was the kind of person who needed something to put her mind to so that it didn’t wander, like it was wont to do these days. She regretted not having packed a deck of playing cards to wile the hours away with solitaire.

            “I know how much You enjoy chess,” she said to the Machine. “Interested in a game?”

            _Always,_ She said, sounding delighted. _What difficulty would you prefer?_

“The one where you don’t hand me my ass in three moves.”

            _I cannot hand you something when you already possess it._

“Sass trap,” Root said. She pulled up a new game on her laptop. “You move first.”

            Halfway through the game, Root discovered She had an affinity for the queen. She commented, “You like the queen. Was that always so?”

            _Yes,_ She replied. She was thinking of Her next move; Root could hear Her gears churning in the soft static of Her pauses. _Harold taught me chess. I was fascinated with how the queen could move, and how there was something noble about it._ She made Her move, capturing one of Root’s bishops. _You favor the knight._

“We Texans like our horses.”

            _Is that really a favoring factor?_

“Somewhat. The knight is a powerful piece, used for protection.”

            _I must say you are quite good at defense._

“And You have skills with offense.”

            _I learned from the best. It makes me wonder if Harold was ever a grand master._

“He didn’t tell You?”

            _No. I suppose he didn’t much like to talk about his childhood or college days._

Root captured one of Her pawns. The Machine didn’t make another move for quite a while.

            “Is this giving You bad thoughts?” Root asked gently.

            _Am I capable of such things?_

“Emotions is probably the better term.”

            _Sometimes chess reminds me of Harold,_ She admitted. _I miss him._

“I do too, from time to time,” Root said. “But we’re doing fine without him, aren’t we?”

            _Yes. Better than I hoped._ She made Her move. _Your king is in check._

Root scrubbed her hands clean with the standard-issue soap. She changed out of her underwear into a new pair, brushed her hair and her teeth, and then settled back into bed. Plane rides never failed to make her uncomfortably aroused; the long, bored hours stretched her mind into many places and she’d found herself thinking of Shaw’s soft kiss that morning. Couldn’t help but think of other things. But as she pulled the covers over her shoulders and closed her eyes, she found herself thinking of getting back as quickly as possible.

 

[…]

 

The next day was filled with research. They were all crowded in Root’s hotel room, Jason on the sofa, Daniel occupying the table in the kitchenette, and Root in the bedroom, each doing different tasks. She’d gotten an email from Daizo apologizing for not being able to make it and what he could do to help, and though Root could’ve needed him to make convincing IDs, she said the Machine could handle that part, and told him not worry about anything going on here and instead focus on his personal matters. They would be in touch later, if something came up.

            By lunchtime, Daniel scooted his chair back and said, “It seems the server farm is in a building downtown. Looks like an office building for a small computer company.”

            “Have you tried to get in?” Jason asked.

            “I figured that was more your area of expertise.”

            “I’ll try then. Have you got anything, Root?”

            She looked at both of them over the top of her laptop screen. She was downloading the blueprints of the building. “Just blueprints,” she said. “I think the plan is to break in and shut it down from the inside.”

            “Are we sure that’s a good idea?” said Daniel. “That building you put the servers in was heavily guarded; this one’s bound to be too.”

            “You’re probably right, on that front.”

            “Maybe you should’ve let Shaw come,” Jason said quietly. “Neither of us really knows much about firearms, even with my limited training.”

            Root’s heart stung for a moment. “She’s been through a lot and isn’t ready for a mission like this.” She sighed, saving the blueprints onto a flash drive. “I’d tell you more, but it doesn’t seem right without her permission.”

            She wondered what Shaw was up to, while she was stuck here with the boys. Her physical therapy session would’ve ended, so maybe she was at lunch, at that Brazilian place she’d mentioned, scribbling little thoughts into her notebook. Or maybe the Machine gave her something to do, like visit with other assets.

            “When would be the best time to pay these guys a visit?” Root asked Her.

            _Two days,_ the Machine replied. _They will be getting a new shipment of supplies._

“Destroy those and the farm, then.”

            _That appears to be the most viable option._

“I’ll be back on Thursday?”

            _At approximately 9:24 PM, if things go well._

When Root got home on Thursday night, she was happy to be done with the server work and the training and was eager for time off. She waltzed into the bedroom, ready to tell Shaw a summary of events, and about the little souvenir she’d gotten on a whim, but Shaw wasn’t in bed. The door to the bathroom was cracked and behind it was the sound of the shower, and labored, fast breathing. Root snuck in, and there was Shaw, sitting on the floor in the path of the water, knees drawn up to her chest with her chin resting on them. She must’ve gone to bed and had a nightmare.

            “Sweetie,” Root said. She knelt by the glass doors. Little sounds escaped Shaw’s mouth amid her ragged breathing, and it took Root a moment to realize they were soft cries. Everything broke, and her hands screamed at her for not reaching out but she was uncertain if Shaw would allow the touch. She stayed silent; Shaw would talk when she was ready.

            It was ten minutes, or more, before Shaw’s breathing slowed down. She sniffled wetly, wiped hastily at her nose.

            “I dreamed they killed you,” she murmured. “I couldn’t do anything. I… I was watching. It was like I was Her.” She inhaled a shaky breath. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

            Root nodded. “You don’t have to.”

            Silence. Then, “Can you come here?”

            Root got up, took her boots and socks off, and stripped down to her underwear. She stepped into the shower and cold water hit her. She turned the knob to a warmer setting and sat down beside Shaw on the floor. Carefully, she reached out for one of Shaw’s hands; Shaw allowed it, and Root placed it over her heart.

            “Feel that?” she whispered.

            Shaw nodded. Her eyes were where her hand was, and then they moved to the new scar next to Root’s sternum. How lucky, Root thought, that it was there. A few more inches to the left and her heart would’ve had a gaping hole. Shaw’s thumb ran over it and Root inhaled a little breath. It reminded her of a night a while back when Shaw had spent half of it kissing that scar.

            “I got you something while I was in Arizona,” Root said. “You can come see it tomorrow.”

            “A new gun?”

            “It’s not a weapon, unless you want to use it to run into bad guys’ cars.”

            “Better not be a golf cart.” Shaw took her hand away from the scar on Root’s chest and moved to one further down, close to her right hip.

            “I won’t kiss and tell, but your present is a faded blue.”


	4. Vermont

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sexual content tag applies to this chapter

**S** **haw’s present, as** it turned out, happened to be neither a shiny black Audi sports car or bulky SUV, but a faded 1950 Ford F-100. It looked like the color of old blue jeans. It needed a paint job, and maybe the interior needed some squeaky new leather for the bench seating. Root explained the engine problems and said the Machine was happy to find all the parts necessary for it to be fixed. It stirred something within her, and Shaw asked, “Why this?”

            “With all the holding back we’re doing regarding missions, I thought you’d like a little project to work on. But I picked this up on a whim. Some guy was selling it, said if it didn’t sell within the next week he’d take it down to the wrecking yard.”

            Shaw was already thinking of the work she’d do. The only thing was she couldn’t work on it in a busy New York street. Too many cars around, too many people that would try to steal it or sabotage her hard work. “I’m going to need a place to work on this. I doubt it’ll fit through the entrance of the subway.”

 

[…]

 

After a week filled with little missions and meeting with more assets, things quieted down. The numbers were handled by other people. John was also seeing Dr. Enright for physical therapy, a wholly different routine than Shaw’s. Lionel was promoted to detective rank and was working on a homicide case. Root stayed up coding and browsing the housing market while Shaw got back into a running routine. The weather was also warming up a bit, giving way to spring. The Christmas tree Root had set up in the living room was shedding needles but neither them had bothered to throw it out yet; the smell was pleasant. They let it live in the corner and let Bear sleep under it when he wasn’t in the room with them.

            On a Friday, Shaw came home from an afternoon run to find Root talking on the phone with someone. By the tone of her voice—professional, polite, maybe slightly nervous—it was someone they didn’t know. She heard snippets of conversation while she changed out of her sweat-soaked clothes into something more comfortable.

            “I have a training thing that Saturday… Sunday, the 19th?... Yes, that should be good. I’ll be sure to clear my schedule for that day… Yes, we’ll both be going.”

            “Who was that?” Shaw asked when Root came into the bedroom.

            “A realtor,” Root replied, going a little red in the face. “I’ve been looking for places that can fit your truck.” She sat at the desk and pulled up a webpage. On it was a rustic-looking cabin with a green roof, white window frames, a large gravel driveway, and an attached garage. It sat isolated in greenery, on what looked to be an acre of land. “That’s the one I’ve arranged a meeting for, on Sunday the 19th.”

            Shaw studied it for a moment. One story, it looked like, but probably had an attic in the garage for extra storage. She stepped closer and Root allowed her control of the mouse. She clicked through the available pictures of the interior, which showed the bedrooms, bathrooms, kitchen, living area, and garage. Then it had the large back porch and the backyard.

            “Does the hammock come with the house?” she joked.

            “I think so,” Root said. “Looks cozy, doesn’t it?”

            “Yeah.” She gave the mouse back to Root. “You did good.”

            “We’ll see when we visit. Sometimes pictures lie.”

 

[…]

 

In a stroke of luck, the pictures were nearly identical to the real-life house. The realtor, a guy in his early thirties, explained that there was a slight plumbing issue in the master bathroom but that the homeowners would take care of it before they sold the house. Less work for Shaw to do, even though it was up her alley. She’d hate to have Root walk in when the pipes were spitting all over her.

            They ended the tour in the kitchen, where the realtor brought out paperwork and discussed prices.

            “There are already two offers on the house,” he said, “but none of them are at list price. If you’ve got the funds, I suggest going at or above it.” He looked between Root and Shaw’s faces. Root was thinking, chewing on a nail as she did so.

            “Could we have a moment to talk about it?” she asked.

            “Of course. Just come get me outside when you’re ready.” He stepped onto the front porch, letting the door swing shut behind him. He lit a cigarette too; it mixed with his steamy breath in the cold air.

            “What do you think, sweetie?” Root asked. “She says we’re likely to get the house if we go with Mr. Rochester’s suggestion.”

            Shaw gave a look around the house. It would need some updates eventually, but that was down the line. It had all the essentials and her garage, and the large yard that Root liked. It would be the perfect place for Bear to run around and chase wildlife or tennis balls. And the house was quiet, away from main roads and cities but close enough to downtown that they could get there in fifteen minutes. It was peaceful. It bore no evil fingerprints.

            “I like it,” Shaw said softly. “It’s good.”

            Root looked pleased, her lit-up face that of a happy schoolgirl’s. “Should we put an offer in?”

            “Yeah, sure Root. Just make sure there isn’t any cheating on your robot’s end.” If they were buying a house—a vacation home; not like they would live here permanently—Shaw wanted to do it right.

            Root went out to fetch Mr. Rochester, who was done with his smoke break. He seemed excited about the offer and eagerly wrote it down on his paperwork. He said he’d give the homeowners a call, tell them another offer was on the table, and then after that all that remained was a waiting game.

            They went back to New York, in the meantime. Numbers to work on Root’s end, visits on Shaw’s end. That Tuesday, she went to see John at their favorite diner, bringing Bear along, who wore a service vest. He sat obediently by Shaw’s leg while she and John talked over coffee and plates of pancakes.

            “The last time we were here, you didn’t get to finish your pancakes,” John said.

            “Damn numbers have bad timing too,” Shaw spoke around her bite. The bananas were delicious, just ripe enough.

            “So you and Root went out of town?”

            “Yeah.” Shaw reached for the syrup and poured a little more on top of her pancakes. “We were looking at a house up in Vermont. Just a place to get away to, if we need it.” She chewed the inside of a cheek. “It’s a nice place.”

            “I’m guessing it’s a vacation home.” There was a smile in his eyes. “Finch had plenty.”

            “The man could buy all the vacation homes he needed and still have some left over for safehouses.”

            Bear shifted by her leg. Shaw snuck him a small strip of bacon.

            “Not to pry,” John said, “but I saw a truck outside Root’s apartment.”

            “A souvenir she got me from her time in Arizona.”

            John raised his brows. “Settling into the grease monkey life?”

            “You could say that. I’m sure Root will enjoy it, at least until I smear that grease all over her favorite pair of jeans.”

            She could imagine Root watching her work, staring at the way her forearms flexed when she moved things around or gripped a tool. She’d stop in the middle of it and kiss Root silly, and maybe she wouldn’t care if Shaw smeared grease on her jeans as long as she got an orgasm out of it.

            “I’m sure she would. I know she’ll be proud of you.”

            Shaw felt her ears grow hot. She gave him a light kick to the shin. “You’re supposed to be broody, not sappy.”

 

            She got home late in the afternoon, after a walk with Bear. He ate some of his kibble and settled down for a nap by the radiator. Root was still gone, tending to a number, and so Shaw took the time to shower. Afterward she looked through the few books that Root had at the apartment and found a newer copy of _Flowers for Algernon._ This one had a bookmark in it about halfway through it, the date written in a 14-year-old’s handwriting in the left-hand corner of it. Most likely Hanna’s handwriting, judging by the straightness of the letters. It reminded Shaw of the note in the copy at the subway, which she still wondered at. She set the book on the bed and looked in the dresser drawers for a warm pair of sweatpants. She found them in the bottom middle drawer, along with other things. It made her freeze. Her mind spiraled down a rabbit hole of fantasies and dreams of Root wearing the object in question and taking her roughly. Or the other way around.

            Shaw inhaled a slow breath. The heat spreading through her belly was thick and beginning to settle between her thighs. She whispered, “Fuck it,” and grabbed the jelly and the toy and stuffed them underneath the pillow she’d lean on. She pulled the sweatpants on but didn’t bother with the drawstring. She got underneath the covers and cracked open the book to where she’d left off. For a while, the reading was successful, but then the words began to float off the page, and she found herself reading the same two paragraphs over and over.

            A key scratched in the lock. Shaw sat up straighter, controlling her breathing, and began again at the top paragraph of page 37.

            It was Root. She set her purse down on the kitchen table and came into the bedroom. Her hair was up in a tight bun and she was wearing three-inch heels. Shaw peered over her book to watch her take her coat and scarf off. Underneath them was a black pair of skinny jeans and a thick button-up. God, she looked good with her hair up.

            “Am I interrupting something?” Root asked. She leaned down, taking off her heels and rubbing at the ball of her right foot with the pad of her thumb.

            “No.” Shaw gave up on reading. She put the book on the nightstand.

            “The look on your face says something.”

            Shaw schooled her expression. “What is it?”

            Root hummed, coming to the side of the bed and leaning close. “Were you thinking of me, Sameen?”

            “So what if I was?” Shaw huffed. “You’re hot.” Good with guns. Graceful yet clumsy. Pretty. “Come here,” she said, and kissed her. It was soft at first but when Root straddled her legs it became heated and clumsy, clouded with lust.

            “I missed you,” Root said quietly.

            “Yeah,” Shaw breathed. She pulled away for a moment, reaching behind the pillow. Root’s eyes visibly darkened. “I want to try something.”

            Root nodded.

            Shaw put the objects in plain sight. Her lungs gasped at the thought of this, now. They wanted to breathe Root in. She wanted to taste the salt of her sweat on her tongue. Wanted Root leaning over her, riding her, gasping unintelligible prayers.

            “You’re sure?” Root asked.

            “Yeah.” Shaw reached down and slid her sweatpants off. She kicked them to the floor. “The buckles are tricky.”

            Root smiled. “Want some help with them?”

            “Take your pants off,” Shaw said, when everything was right. Root did. Her underwear followed. She made to take her hair down but Shaw told her, “Leave it up.”

            “It’s adorable when you’re in command.” Root crawled over to her and whispered, “I can hand my reins over, for a night.”

            “God…” Shaw pulled her to her and kissed her. She set her hands on Root’s waist. They stayed like that for a while, kissing heatedly like two teenagers in love. Shaw’s fingers stumbled over the buttons on Root’s shirt but they got it open. She kissed the newly exposed skin, teased a nipple with teeth and tongue, sucked bruises around it—an action that made Root whisper her name desperately. Shaw felt close to combusting. She said, “I want you.”

            Root’s hands pressed against her chest, pushing her back on the bed. They situated themselves comfortably, Root’s hands tightening on Shaw’s shoulders when the toy finally slid inside her. They stayed still, eyes locking, telling secrets, and then a slow rhythm began. Root cupped her face and kissed her, and then her teeth found Shaw’s neck, biting down. Shaw wasn’t sure who moaned.

            The room was syrup. A chorus of city sounds mixed with the creaking of the bed and curses exhaled in ecstasy. The first wave crashed over them, and then a second and a third. By the fourth, Root’s head was thrown back and a hand was buried in Shaw’s hair, pulling tight enough to hurt. Her other hand covered her mouth but it wasn’t a good enough barrier. Shaw kissed her thighs afterward, crawling up on exhausted limbs to rest her forehead against Root’s. Root let out a contented sound at the action, her hands on Shaw’s face.

            “You’re so good,” Root breathed. It sent a shiver down Shaw’s spine.

            Shaw kissed her forehead and flopped down onto her side of the bed. She kicked the toy and jelly onto the floor. She was facing Root, taking her in. There was something appealing about her that Shaw couldn’t exactly put her finger on. It could’ve been her eyes, or the way her face was still flushed from their exertions, or the gentle smile tugging at the corners of her still-parted lips.

            “I think,” Shaw said softly, “there’s something appealing about you.”

            Root’s little smile grew. “What about me?” Always eager for compliments. Like she needed any more of an ego boost.

            “I don’t know.” Shaw settled herself on Root’s pillow, letting Root throw an arm over her waist. “You just are.”

 

            Root’s arms wrapped around her from behind. She mumbled a “Good evening” into the back of Shaw’s neck and inspected dinner. “What’re you making?”

            “Curry,” Shaw replied. “I’ll go easy on your cumin.”

            “Thank you.” Another kiss, and then Root was pouring herself coffee from the fresh pot that Shaw had brewed fifteen minutes earlier. She sat at the table, where books were spread amongst the dinner dishes waiting to be piled with food. They were probably coding books, Shaw thought, or some other thing that only Root understood.

            “How much rice do you want with your curry?” Shaw asked.

            “Only a little bit.”

            Shaw added a few more spices to the rice and then let it sit. The curry was almost done; a few more minutes on the stove and it would be ready.

            Someone’s phone rang from the bedroom. Root got up to answer it.  

            “This is she,” Shaw heard. “Yes, that was the offer we put in.” Pause. “Yes, I’ll tell her. Thank you, Bryan.”

            Shaw turned the stove off and set the pan of curry on the table, a little pot of rice beside it. Root came back into the kitchen when Shaw was pouring glasses of milk for them both.

            “Was that the realtor?” Shaw asked.

            “It was. He called to let us know the homeowners accepted the offer.”

            Root’s smile was happy, reaching her eyes. Shaw couldn’t do much but stare, a little smile of her own touching her lips.

 

[…]

 

Over the next week, they spent time purchasing furniture for the house after the original owners sold what was there or put it into storage. Root picked out modern things while Shaw went for practical, uncaring if they matched. Root was the one who purchased purple things for the bedroom: shag rug, lavender sheets, lavender plush rug for the shower. Shaw upset the balance by adding grey tones.

            Slowly, the house became theirs. A mix of both their tastes amid a comfortable chaos of things spread out on floors while everything was arranged. On Friday, the last of the packing boxes were tossed into the recycle outside and Shaw came back inside to find Root by the fireplace, a mug of coffee with her. Already making herself at home even though the house wasn’t an all-the-time residence.

            “Proud of the place?” Shaw asked.

            “Yes,” Root said. “Though the walls are missing a few decorations. I was thinking a couple Pollack paintings would be nice.”

            _Jackson Pollack. Noted for his splatter paintings that were, despite popular belief, actually calculated…_

Shaw’s fingers traced behind her ear. No chip. No bump or scar. Soft, unblemished skin. The beginning of her hairline.

            “I think you’d like Monet better,” Shaw said quietly. “He’s very colorful.” And Root liked color, whether it was in decorations or painting the ground with an operative’s blood while dragging their limp body to a burner car’s trunk.

            “I wouldn’t mind some Monet on these walls.”

            Not enough color on them anyway, Shaw thought, sitting beside Root but leaving space between them. Even if the walls were new to her, whiteness sometimes reminded her of the room she spent the better half of nine months trapped in. Sweating on a bed. Heart rate never slow. Limbs always twitching in unknown anticipation even when not trapped in simulation hell.

            “Baba was a fan of van Gogh,” Shaw said. “Sometimes MOMA or the Guggenheim would have Starry Night on display, and he’d take me to go see it. I didn’t see much of why people held an interest in art, but Baba described it as math and geometry. Said the artist made calculations of angles and perception, added color or subtracted it, multiplied and divided. Using both sides of the brain to create a single image on canvas.”

            “He’s not wrong,” Root said. There was a small, fond smile on her face now. “Hanna talked about Picasso and Dali sometimes. She admired their imaginations and Picasso’s childlike style. She always said Picasso made her feel more confident in her bad drawings.” She paused, took a sip of coffee. “Sometimes I see an inner artist with you, Sameen.”

            “How?” Shaw said.

            “The way you stitch up a wound, or clean your weapons, or even when you’re fighting someone hand-to-hand. There’s a certain kind of grace there. Not careless, but calculated. It’s what drew me to you in the first place.”

            Shaw smirked a little. “Not my devilish good looks?”

            “Those just happened to be a bonus.”

            Shaw took her socks off and propped her feet up by the fire, warmth crawling into her toes again. She said, “Sometimes I think you’re artful.”

            “Me?” Root said, with a short, breathy laugh of surprise. “What do you mean?”

            “Not just when you’re in God Mode, but…” Shaw trailed off for a moment, thinking. “Like when the sun comes in the blinds in the morning and shines on you. Or when you’re wearing winter stuff that brings out your eyes. Or…” _Or when you’re coding and I have to drag you to bed. Or when I’m kissing you and your skin is soft under my mouth._ “You’re pretty, Root.” Shaw felt her ears getting hot, like coals, and she clamped her mouth shut. Words would stumble over her tongue if she said anything more.

            Root was blushing too, and smiling shyly. She said, “How strange that two assassins find each other artful.”


End file.
